


Too Busy To Fall: Five Cons (and One Pro) of Working From Home

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic, M/M, POV Second Person, Trans Sam Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: It's hard work, being an Avenger with a day job.





	1. Downtime is down to a minimum

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to calliope_soars and the_genderman for beta!

The first thing Layna suggests, when you tell her you’d like to switch from full-time at the office to working part-time mainly from home, is to set “off-hours,” and to make it clear to your clients that you won’t be working during those times.

“So, like midnight to four?” you joke, but Layna sends you a sharp look over her glasses.

“That’s a start,” she replies sternly, “but I’m not paying you for 20 hours a day. We do not have that kind of budget.”

“I know,” you start to agree — because, good God, do you ever know about the VA and its budget troubles — but Layna goes on.

“You decide how much you want to work, and you decide how much flex time to give yourself for things like emergency paperwork transfers or small email requests. You set that up, you tell your clients your hours, and you _stick to it,_ okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, and Layna nods.

“Good,” she says approvingly. “I do not want you burning out, Sam. You’re one of our best case workers, and I’d hate to lose you.”

“Thanks,” you reply, surprisingly touched by her words.

Like she hears the emotion in your voice, she grins and undercuts it immediately. “Even if you are dumb enough to chase some lunatic across the country.”

You aren’t sure which super soldier she’s talking about, but you grin back anyway. “Thanks, Layna,” you say again. “I appreciate your flexibility.”

“Just promise you won’t get yourself blown up,” she retorts, but you can hear the seriousness behind her tone, and you nod.

“I promise,” you say solemnly, and then you head down the hall to start clearing out your office.

* * *

You do as Layna says and set boundaries, but one of your vets, Jim, doesn’t seem to understand that emails sent on the weekend won’t get answered until Monday morning. You ignore the first one when it comes in, but Jim sends a follow-up two hours later, asking why you haven’t answered yet. You know Jim wrestles with paranoia, and you can see the spiral starting, so you take advantage of your flex time to reply and put Jim’s mind at ease.

The same thing happens next Saturday, though, so when you answer this time, you add a reminder to your signature that the weekend is off-hours. Jim clearly doesn’t read that because he asks another question minutes later about the form that his doctor has to fill out, and he insists that it’s time-sensitive. (It’s not.)

“Just don’t answer,” Steve suggests, the second time your phone buzzes during dinner at your favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese place. “You told him it’s your time off, and he needs to respect that.”

“I know,” you agree, but when Steve goes up to the counter to pay, you sneak your phone out of your pocket and send Jim a quick response anyway.

_Just enough to make him feel better,_ you tell yourself as you hit _Send._ Just enough that both of you can function for the rest of the weekend without worrying.

But Jim obviously doesn’t stop worrying. He sends three more emails in the next two hours, and you end up calling him a little after midnight because he’s freaking out. You spend twenty minutes talking him through his fears about contacting the doctor on Monday, and by the time you hang up, you’re exhausted.  

Steve gives you a look when you get back to the bedroom, and you shrug. “Had to happen sooner or later,” you say.

“Did you at least explain that you’re off-duty?” Steve asked, shuffling over in the bed to make room for you.

“Sort of,” you reply, telling yourself that you’re not lying, not really. You did get the words out, even if Jim didn’t acknowledge them.

But Steve, damn him, looks right through you, and you roll your eyes. “I tried,” you correct yourself. “I’m seeing him on Tuesday, so I’ll go over it again.”

“And if he still doesn’t get it?” Steve prompts.

“Then maybe one of the other social workers can take him on,” you answer, though you really hope it doesn’t come to that. Given Jim’s trust issues, you’re not sure how long it would take for him to open up to someone new — if he even ever would.

Steve hums and shimmies closer. You welcome his heat, having had to get out of bed to call Jim, and now your feet are freezing. Steve complains when you bury your toes between his calves, but you know he doesn’t mind, not really. He knows he’s a furnace.

You wrap yourself up in him and close your eyes. Sleep doesn’t seem far away, thankfully, but you hope you can get there before your phone goes off again.


	2. You have to dress for success

It only takes you a week to realize that you’re not very good at making and keeping your own schedule. Which surprises you, actually, because you’re always good at keeping appointments and showing up on time. Early, even. But, as you quickly discover, it’s different when you’re not going anywhere. You can’t quite put your finger on what it is at first, but for some reason, when you say you’re starting your day at nine, same as you would at the office any other day, it’s a lot harder to do that when you’re working from home.

You get out of bed on time, and Steve’s home, so you run with him and take a shower. But after, you put your PJs back on instead of real clothes, because you’re not going anywhere, and you linger over your coffee a little longer than you normally would, because it’s tasty and you have time.

You read the news on your phone during breakfast, while Steve’s newspaper rustles on the other side of the table, and when you get to the end of your article, the next one seems really interesting, too. So you click the link. _What the heck,_ you think. It’s only ten past, and you’re not done your coffee.

“Shouldn’t you be getting to work?” Steve asks you on the third day that this happens.

“In a minute,” you tell him, and yourself.

You still get your work done each day, but the morning delay becomes a habit you can’t seem to break. And when HYDRA attacks Los Angeles the following Tuesday, and you’re taking advantage of the Avengers’ top-secret communications array in the quinjet to reschedule appointments and answer emails you didn’t get to yesterday, it hits you: you needed a push. An external motivation, like the commitment to show up at the office or get to the dentist on time.

A push to get dressed and moving.

You deal with the bad guys, and you leave Steve on the West Coast for a few days to help with clean-up while you head back to DC, to real life. You’re sore as hell the next morning without Steve there to massage your aching back, but you set your alarm for 7:30 and drag your jet-lagged ass into the shower. You put on your best slacks after and pull a collared shirt out of the closet. It needs to be ironed, but you skip it and put on a tie to cover the worst of the wrinkles instead.

Next thing you know, you’re at your desk, firing off emails and researching funding opportunities. You don’t stop till almost two, when your stomach growls and your eyes start to itch, reminding you that you’re still sleep-deprived and bruised to hell. But you keep going, just a little longer, until you’ve finished writing out this last note, and then you have lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon soaking in the tub, guilt-free.

When you hear the front door open three days later, you don’t bother to get up; it’s just Steve, and you’re in the middle of parsing the language of this scholarship program to see if Janna qualifies. The gender thing will be tricky, along with the legal name part, but you know those hoops all too well, and you should be able to guide her through them.

A soft knock on your office door interrupts you, and you glance up to see Steve leaning on the doorframe, giving you a look that’s fond and amused.

“What?” you ask, moving your eyes back to the screen.

“Nothing,” Steve replies. He comes into the room but keeps his distance; you appreciate how he respects your privacy and the privacy of your clients like that.

“Just... you look good,” he adds a moment later, and when you glance over, you see that his expression has changed. It’s gone from warm to hot; you suppress a smile. _Damn super soldier and his one-track mind._

“In a minute,” you tell him, but after seeing that look in his eyes, it’s hard to focus. You remember that it’s been almost a week since you had some alone time with Steve, and that’s saying something when you consider Steve’s sex drive.

“Did I buy you that tie?” he asks after another minute of sending you smoldering glances from the corner of the room.

“Probably,” you answer. Your mouth is surprisingly dry, and you shift in your seat. It’s getting harder to concentrate, and under your slick dress pants everything is starting to get warm and a little bit slippery. It’s the beginning of an arousal that used to make you nauseous but now feels more familiar, almost welcome.

You clear your throat and look again — Steve, the bastard, is openly smirking now. He knows your body like no one else, and he knows exactly how to work it.

“Then I have good taste,” he says, and it takes you a second to remember what he’s talking about: the tie, of course. You aren’t actually sure if he bought it, but he did buy you a lot of nice things when you moved in together, so it’s possible.

“I knew that already,” you manage to parry back. You minimize the scholarship guidelines you were reading — there’s no point in trying anymore — and swivel in your seat. Steve’s smile widens, and he looks you up and down, real slow.

“You look really good,” he says again, stepping forward until his legs are between yours, and your hands are on his skinny waist. He makes a noise, low in his throat, and bends just enough to brush his lips against yours. You press for more contact. He denies you, which only makes you more desperate. You squirm, striving to get nearer, but Steve’s fingers on your throat stop you cold.

You wait with bated breath as he hooks his finger into the knot of your tie and tugs — you know he’s got enough strength in that one knuckle to tear the thick, shiny fabric, but he’s gentle, loosening the knot little by little. It’s more erotic than a strip tease, and given how tight and hot Steve’s jeans are getting under your hands, you’re honestly not sure which of you is more turned on by this simple, slow motion.

You remember thinking, when you first met Steve, that he’d never slow down, that he wouldn’t know how, but as things have developed between you, he’s never rushed you, never pushed you past your limits, never guilted you for not keeping pace with him. That competitive little shit you met running one morning is nowhere near you now; this is your slow-as-molasses, sexy-as-hell lover, and right now there’s nothing more important to him than taking your clothes off.

And now that you’ve clocked out for the day, you let him.


	3. You still have to go into the office

Contrary to popular belief (Steve), working from home does not mean that you never have to go into the office. You still see clients on Tuesday afternoons, and there’s the all-staff meeting every Thursday morning, and check-ins with Layna every other Friday. Periodically one of your clients will need to see you on an off-day, too, if their schedule (or yours) changes suddenly. (Thanks, HYDRA.) Those are always fun, since you no longer officially have an office, and the one you use on Tuesdays is booked by someone else when you come in, so you get to set up shop wherever there’s room. _Musical offices,_ Layna calls it, and she’s right, except that there’s no music.

You wish there was music, because, being away, you’ve forgotten how stressful the place can be on Mondays. The waiting room is jam-packed, and when you arrive, you see that poor Anna’s got a line six people deep in front of her desk. You give her a wave as you pass and make a mental note to bring her a chai latte later, since it’s the only thing she likes at Starbucks.

There are papers in your mailbox that you pick up on the way to Remi’s office, which is the one you’ll be using from 12 to 1:30 today. Layna loans you the key, and the first thing you do is open the window — Remi’s a great guy, but he’s not exactly diligent about emptying the garbage bin under his desk before he goes home for the weekend. You shoo a few fruit flies away and take it to the big bin in the hall, using the chair to leave the door propped open so you don’t get locked out.

Your client isn’t coming till 12:30, so you log into your email, sweep out the junk. An invitation to a conference put on by the March of Dimes next month — you flag that for later, just in case, but everything else goes. You send some correspondence with your clients to the printer, so it can be added to their files, and as you prop open the office door again, you realize with a start that it’s 12:34. You rush to the file room to grab the print-outs and hurry to the waiting room— but Mohamed isn’t there. You ask Anna, and she checks the computer, but nope, he hasn’t checked in yet.

You exhale a frustrated little breath and use the edge of Anna’s desk to straighten the pages you’re carrying. “I’ll guess I’ll come back and check in a few minutes,” you say, and Anna nods at you before answering one of the three phone lines that are currently ringing.

On the way back to your — no, Remi’s — office, you swing by the file room again and put away the pages you printed out earlier. That kills about five minutes, so you go back to the waiting room, but there’s still no Mohamed. You frown, tap your foot. Anna gives you a commiserating look, but she’s on the phone, so she can’t say anything. You glance around, but the rest of the admin staff is in their offices with the doors closed — Monday business — so there’s no one for you to talk to while you wait. You meander over to the notice board, read a few ads for PTSD studies that are looking for participants, but that’s not nearly enough to hold your interest, and you find yourself glancing over every time the elevator makes a sound.

It’s not like Mo to miss a session; you’re starting to get worried. You go to Remi’s office and re-open your inbox, but there’s been no word. It’s 12:57 now — too late to see him if he did show up, so you pick up the phone, put it back down. Pick it up again. Drum your fingers on the desk and finally dial.

There’s no answer, so you leave him a voicemail and ask him to email you about rescheduling. The second you put down the receiver it rings, but it’s Layna, she wants to know if you can take a crisis client, who’s coming in in ten minutes. Guess Anna told her about your no-show, and Georgia’s out sick today. You glance at your watch and silently debate it for about three seconds before deciding that you may as well, since you’re here anyway.

You hang up and hope to God that Layna can find you an office.


	4. You need to take breaks

At the office, when your paperwork (or, more accurately, your screenwork) is interspersed with client visits, you would never forget to take your lunch break. You might spend ten minutes of it actually eating and work through the rest, but you’d never skip it entirely. Your co-workers (especially Layna) would never let that happen. Remi or Georgia, or sometimes even Anna, would walk by your open office door and say something like, “Had your lunch yet, Sam?” or “Wanna try that new sandwich shop with me today?” and you’d look up, realize that that foggy-headed feeling you’d been ignoring for twenty minutes was hunger.

You’d pull yourself away, convince yourself that there was nothing that couldn’t wait half an hour (sometimes that’s a harder job than you might think), and you’d leave. During the summer, you’d add a walk around the block to your day, sometimes alone, but usually with Georgia. She’s great company — funny as hell, but compassionate, too, and always a little too ready with romantic advice. (She still won’t let you forget that she was the one who encouraged you to go after Steve.)

Now that you’re working from home, you have to internalize her voice to get you away from the computer, since she’s not here to do it. You really ought to set an alarm or something — you keep reminding yourself to do that, but then you forget again. Maybe you could set an alarm to remind you to set an alarm to remind you to take your lunch break. Because you forget. Without the regular rhythm of the office — coffee, email, first client, notes, lunch, second client, notes, paperwork, home — you get sucked in, and time just disappears.

When Steve’s here, he nudges you to the kitchen or suggests a trip to whatever local, organic, fair trade joint he’s just discovered. (Such a Brooklyn hipster, _God._ ) But when he’s not here, you keep working, because the work never stops — not really. There’s always research to do, and the emails keep pouring in. You stick to your schedule — sort of — and don’t — usually — go over your weekly hours, but, left to your own devices, you skip lunch more than you ought to, and that, you discover about a month into this arrangement, makes you _hella_ grouchy.

“So, I dunno,” Steve’s voice says from somewhere off to your right. “I mean, I can see fermenting cabbage, but tea? Seems weird to me.”

You make a noise to acknowledge his words, but in your head you’re trying to remember what he’s talking about and why he chose this moment to bring it up. You’re live-chatting with Janna to help her with her scholarship application — you’re too busy for this kind of idle talk.

“Then again, when Mrs. Laszlo first told me about sauerkraut, I thought that was weird, too,” Steve continues, “and now it’s my favorite thing to put on a hot dog besides mustard.”

“Uh huh,” you say, even as you’re typing out complicated advice. You hope he’ll take it as a hint, but—

“And it’s supposed to be really good for you, too. Helps with gut flora or something, but a lot of the evidence seems pretty anecdotal. Do you know anything about that?” he asks, because you’re someone who knows about gut flora. (Please.)

“Health nuts,” you mutter as you wait for Janna to reply, because Steve obviously wants you to say something.

“Who was that one lady you were telling me about, that anti-vaxxer who tried to live on broth for three weeks? That was crazy, I couldn’t—”

He keeps talking, but you stop listening. Janna’s reply just appeared on your screen, and it’s sending up a flurry of red flags.

“Bet she drinks kombucha,” Steve says, and you lose it, spinning in your chair to find him fiddling with the collectibles on your bookcase, which you’ve told him a million times not to touch.

“Steve,” you say, and he turns sharply, dropping his hands like a scolded child in a china shop. _“What_ do you _want?”_

“I thought we were gonna go get lunch,” Steve replies. You can see the hurt in his eyes, but for some reason this only pisses you off more.

“I’m in the middle of something,” you snap. “Can’t you just leave me alone for five minutes?”

You regret the words the moment they fly out of your mouth. Like everything’s moving in slow motion, you see Steve’s hurt turn into anger, you watch as his jaw turns to stone, as his eyes narrow. You open your mouth again, but time speeds back up, and suddenly he’s walking away.

“Guess I’ll go by myself,” he mutters.

“Steve,” you say, but it’s too quiet and too late. The door clicks firmly shut behind him.

Your computer dings — it’s Janna again. You hesitate, caught between priorities, before you throw yourself back into your work. Steve will cool off, but Janna _needs_ you, she’s freaking out, and she’s much less better equipped to handle that than Steve is.

 _He’ll cool off,_ you tell yourself again, when an hour’s passed, Janna’s feeling better, and you’re making yourself a peanut butter sandwich. He’ll cool off, he’ll come back, and you can make it right.

* * *

He does, and you do. You start with an apology (or three), which he accepts, and the discussion turns to priorities and boundaries. Boring stuff, but important. You tell him that you can’t always entertain visitors in the office, and he agrees that, in some things, your work just has to come first. He does have one little request, though.

“Promise me you’ll never skip lunch again? It doesn’t have to be with me,” he adds quickly, “but you do have to eat. I don’t like you when you’re hangry.”

“It’s no fun for anyone,” you agree, with a rueful laugh. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he leans in for what’s sure to be the start of a good long make up session.

But you stop him, take your phone out of your pocket, and set an alarm. Repeating every day at 12:15: LUNCH BREAK.


	5. You can’t call in sick, no matter how many monsters you saved the world from last night

Your alarm is going off. This is unfortunate, because you only went to bed an hour ago. If it were any other day, you’d hit snooze and stay between the sheets a little longer. Hell, you might even call in sick. But today isn’t any other day — today is today, and you need to get up.

Today, Mohamed’s application for disability benefits is due, and you promised you’d look it over and go with him to the office to submit it. Given his penchant for leaving things to the last minute, he only sent it to you a few hours ago. You know this because the email notification was the first thing to come up when you got your phone out of your locker at Stark Tower and turned it on. This was between the end of the battle against the SSMS (Sentient Slime Monster from Space) and the first of many showers.

Now the application is due in a few hours, and you still have to proof it, print it, and drive to Mo’s place to pick him up, since his license was revoked after the accident three months ago. You’re aware that this is going above and beyond, and Layna has warned you about becoming a crutch, but in the end you managed to convince her that it’s important to lead Mo into taking this first step; there’s nothing worse than watching someone fall through the cracks because they’re just not well enough to pull themselves up a little.

Which means that you really have to get out of bed. Now. And from the feel of your scalp, you didn’t get all of the blaster-charred SSMS residue out of your hair, after all, so another shower would probably be a good idea, too. You have Rhodey to thank for that. He blew up a tentacle directly above you. (You’ll be sure to get him back next time.)

Steve grunts when you sit up, but he doesn’t move. He’s out cold and he’ll stay that way for a while, given how not-better his injuries look. You wince nonetheless as you get out of bed — you can’t help but feel responsible, since he saved your life only a few hours ago. The SSMS went after you and the civilians you were escorting, and while you got them out of the way, it was picking up a car with one of its long, oozy tentacles. If it weren’t for Steve dropping down from the second-floor balcony right in front of you, you’d have a lot more problems than just slime in your hair.

You make it to the bathroom and turn the water on, which makes you have to pee. After a second, you decide to sit down to do that. Being a guy is hard work sometimes, especially when you’re a guy who’s a counselor who moonlights as a superhero. Or, maybe you’re a superhero who moonlights as a counselor — you’re not sure which, but it doesn’t matter. Avenger or counselor, people are counting on you, even when you’re sore and tired.

You focus on getting clean, scrubbing out flakes of slime that you somehow missed the first, second, and third time you went through the decontamination cycle at the Tower. As the bits go down the drain, you hope that they’re not a biohazard. Not that there’s anything you can do about it now, but still.  

By the time you’re done, you feel a little more human, but what actually wakes you up is the smell of coffee that greets you when you open the bathroom door.

“Steve?” you say, but there’s no answer.

You head to the bedroom and find the bed empty. Rumpled, because neither you nor Steve feel the need to make the bed unless company’s coming, but cold. He’s been gone for a while. You wander down the hall in just your towel, following your nose to the kitchen, where Steve’s putting bacon on the electric griddle. The heat’s way too high, and it spits at him. You chuckle when he jumps back from the counter in surprise.

“What are you doing?” you ask, reaching around him to turn the griddle down. “Besides trying to start a fire.”

“I’m making you breakfast,” Steve answers, and it’s adorable, the way he eyes the griddle mistrustfully before laying down another strip of bacon. “I know Mohamed’s application is due today, so you just go get started on that, and I’ll bring you a plate when it’s ready.”

You blink, stunned. “Go on,” Steve adds, when he looks and sees that you haven’t moved yet. “What’s wrong?”

“You remembered,” you say. The words come out like a question, which is probably insulting to the man who’s making you breakfast, but you’re so surprised (and tired) that you can’t help it.

Steve sends you a crooked smile over his shoulder. “You know, sometimes, when you talk, I do listen.”

“I know,” you reply, feeling yourself blush a little. When he nods smugly, though, you smack his narrow backside and add, “Smartass.”

“That’s why you like it so much,” Steve counters, and you roll your eyes. “Now go on. You can’t proofread Mo’s application naked.”

“You wish,” you retort. You avoid the spitting griddle — he must have turned it back up — and head to the coffee pot. The first sip is heaven; you close your eyes and sigh joyfully.

“Good?” Steve asks. You don’t need to see him to know that he’s smug again, but you don’t mind. He made the best coffee in the world this morning, so he’s entitled.

“I love you,” you say, without really meaning to. When you open your eyes a second later, Steve’s moved. He’s right in front of you, and he’s grinning.

“Finally,” he says under his breath, and then he’s kissing you.

You’re confused, but Steve’s tongue is coaxing your lips apart, and he tastes like he always does, so you close your eyes again and go for it, kissing him back until you’re leaning on him for support, and his sweat pants look to be getting uncomfortable. Your towel’s about to slip off — and you’re about to let it — when a sizzling pop distracts Steve enough to pull away.

“Shit,” he murmurs, flipping the now-very-crispy bacon. You laugh, pat him on the butt again, and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

Ten minutes later you’re in front of your computer with Mohamed’s application in front of you. Reading it, you start to smile; it’s strong, and there’s hardly anything for you to do, except add a few missing words and correct one minor spelling mistake. You send it to print, just in time for Steve to enter the room, carrying a plate of pancakes and bacon as promised. He pecks you on the cheek as he hands it to you, and something suddenly clicks into place in your brain.

“I really am slower than you,” you say, and you watch his smile bloom.

“Yep,” he says matter-of-factly, and walks away.

You follow him — _chasing him,_ you hear Layna say in your head — and sit down at the table. He joins you a minute later, with another full plate.

“I’m sorry,” you say, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he replies, taking a bite of his bacon. “You did warn me, after all.”

You watch him eat, thinking back — everything that’s happened since he turned up on your morning run feels like so long ago, like another life. But also not. You wonder if maybe you loved him a little even then, when he was cocky and smug about lapping you every few minutes. Maybe your heart knew all along; maybe it’s just taken your brain a little while to catch up.

“Huh,” you hear yourself say, and Steve smiles again. His patient side is back, willing to wait while you connect the dots, piece together the puzzle that he solved in ten seconds.

“I love you,” you say again, and it surprises you all over that you’ve never said it before today.

“I know,” Steve answers in a deep, put-upon voice.

“What?” you say, startled, but then you catch on and send him a glare. “I should never have shown you _Star Wars.”_

Steve laughs out loud. He stretches his hand across the table, finds yours and squeezes it tight. “Really, though,” he says more seriously. “I’ve been wanting to say it for ages. But the timing never seemed right. Believe it or not, I don’t always like being the first one to dive in.”

You don’t believe that — Steve’s a born leader, anyone can see it a mile off — but you won’t say it.

“Plus, Nat kept telling me to wait,” Steve goes on. “She said I might scare you off.”

You frown suddenly. What does that remind you of? Oh, right. Of course.

“Riley and I moved pretty fast,” you begin, trying to smile but not sure if you’re pulling it off. “We clicked right away, and— well, you know war zones.”

Steve nods quickly. “I know.”

“After he passed,” you continue. The words have sat so long in the pit of your stomach you swear they taste acidic. This is at the root, you realize: the reason it’s taken you this long to tell Steve what you’ve known for months. “I couldn’t— I had a hard time opening up to people,” you admit. “Even my mom, my friends. I couldn’t tell them I loved them. When they said it, I just...”

“You nodded,” Steve supplies. “You smiled. You grunted, periodically.”

You send him a quizzical look, and he raises his eyebrows in return. “I went with you to your family Christmas, remember?”

“Right,” you say quickly. Your face is heating up again, you’re embarrassed, but there’s a sense of relief, too, that he’s noticed these things about you and that he understands. “I’ve been getting better,” you say, feeling the need to try to explain. “With Mom and Sarah.”

“I know,” Steve says. “I just didn’t want to put any more pressure on you.”

“Appreciate that,” you mumble. “I’m sorry I—”

“Are you kidding?” Steve interrupts, cutting your apology short. “Sam, with everything on your plate, I’m not surprised that you’re your own last priority.”

That catches you off-guard. “I— what?”

“Sam,” Steve says, and it’s a half-exasperated syllable. “You take care of everybody. You never stop. Even last night—” He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Do you know how hard I have to fight to keep Tony and Rhodey from adopting you? Every day they’re asking me when you can move in.”

“Why?” you ask, floored.

“Because you’re you,” Steve replies emphatically. “Because you’re there at the drop of a hat when the world needs the Avengers, not to mention your clients and your family, and Bucky, and me. You’re always taking care of somebody, Sam, and it’s time somebody took care of you.”

You blink at him, twice, and he seems to realize that he was ranting. His cheeks darken, and he looks down at his plate. “I don’t mean to start a fight,” he says quietly. “But it’s hard, watching you put yourself last. I’m worried that... I don’t know,” he finishes, but you know he does know, he’s just afraid to say it.

You know, too. He’s afraid you’ll burn out, just like Layna is. You open your mouth to protest, because that’s ridiculous, but something makes you close it again. You think about the stupid fight you had with Steve on the day you skipped lunch, the way you and Layna disagreed about what might be best in Mo’s case. You remember the times you dropped everything to answer Jim’s emails, how you blurred the rules about off-hours when Janna called you at 3AM a few weeks ago. You think about how tired you are this morning, how you’re wearing your nicest jeans and a collared t-shirt, even though you’d rather be in your pyjamas.

_Avenger or counselor, people are counting on you,_ you think again, but the argument feels a little weak now, and Steve seems to realize it.

“I love you,” he says softly. “I wish you could know how much.”

You look down at the plate of pancakes before you, surely cold by now, and you realize that how much he loves you is right here, it’s always been here, waiting for you to catch on, because Steve will always wait for you.

“I need to call Layna,” you say suddenly.

Steve sighs, pulls back. “Okay,” he says, sounding put out.

“No,” you protest after a second, because you can see what he’s thinking. “No, I need her to talk to Mohamed,” you explain. “Because I can’t take him to the disability office today. I’m too tired.”

“Oh,” says Steve, surprised. “Okay, then.”

You nod, suppressing the guilty squirm inside your stomach. You can do this. You’ve already gone above and beyond for Mo; Layna will understand that. And if you don’t take care of yourself—

“Here.” Steve interrupts your thoughts by handing you your phone. “I’ve already dialed.”

Your lips crack a little when you smile at him in gratitude. The nerves you feel as the line rings are nauseating — calling in sick for sure now — but Steve’s hand is steady on yours, grounding and encouraging you.

_I need to take today off._ You practice the words inside your head so many times that when Layna answers, you’re ready.

She agrees with you right away — she saw you and the space slime duking it out on the news early this morning — and she says she was waiting for your call. Glad to receive it, even.

“Take as much time as you need,” she says, but then she corrects herself. “No, actually, I’m mandating that you take the next week off.”

“Mandating?” you repeat, bemused. In all the time you’ve worked for her, you don’t think you’ve ever heard her use that word.

“It’s my right to,” she replies, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Send Remi and Georgia your case notes and go on vacation.”

“Now, wait—” you can’t help protesting, but she talks over you.

“And send me Mo’s application, I’ll drive him in today,” she instructs. “Enjoy your time off, Sam.”

She hangs up before you can get another word out. You pull the phone away from your ear and stare at it like it has an explanation for you.

“That sounded like it went well,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. It’s still sinking in that you tried to call in sick for one day and ended up with a week’s vacation. “Yeah.”

“So what do you want to do now?” asks Steve.

You stare at him blankly. “I don’t know.”

Steve laughs a little. “You sound like me,” he says. He rests an elbow on the table and leans forward. “What makes you happy?”

You roll your eyes, but the question is serious, and you realize you don’t know the answer as well as you thought you did when you first asked him that. You shake your head, shrug.

Steve reaches for your plate and gets to his feet. “How about we start simple? You can email your case notes while I re-heat your breakfast, and then we can talk about what you want to do with your week off.”

As he crosses the kitchen to the microwave, you realize that he must have heard each word Layna said. _Damn super soldier,_ you think, as you often do, and that gives you an idea.

“After emails and breakfast, we’re going back to bed,” you announce, and Steve nods at you over his shoulder.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says. “You need more sleep.”

You bite back your grin and decide to let him think that. For now.


	6. You can have it all, you just have to ask

You are full of pancakes, and Steve’s hand is on your leg under the table. He’s finished his own second helping, and he’s scrolling through something on his phone — it looks like Instagram — while you forward your most recent correspondence and case notes to the VA team. Layna gets Mo, Remi gets Jim, and Georgia gets Janna. You send each of your clients a quick note to apologize as well, and all three of them respond within minutes with some variation of _Don’t worry about it, I understand._ Even Jim, which surprises the heck out of you.

When the emails are done, though, you’re hesitant to move. Steve is right beside you, his right hand wandering over your thigh. His fingernails dig into the grooves of your jeans, then scratch against the grain, just hard enough to let you imagine how it would feel without the layer of fabric between you.

You take another mouthful of coffee and edge your chair just a little bit closer to him. His mouth quirks up, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. His hand rounds the top of your thigh, though, and you part your legs a few inches to let him in. He exhales through his nose as he traces the muscle there — you know he loves your thighs almost as much as your ass, and who can blame him for liking either, really. You also know he likes to tease himself as well as you, and you savor the way his fingers dig in, desperate. Then they inch inward, and you feel your breath catch.

You play this game for a while, neither of you acknowledging what’s happening. You’re biting your lip as you stare at your phone unseeingly. Steve finishes his coffee without so much as looking at you, all while he’s practically groping your crotch.  You love it when he’s like this, the casual confidence of touching you because he can, because he wants to, and you want him to, too.

When he puts his empty mug down, he gets to his feet, and you’re disappointed for half a second until you realize what he’s doing — he’s circled behind your chair, and his mouth has landed on your neck. You moan involuntarily and close your eyes. He takes that as permission, which it definitely is, and drops one hand between your legs again. You squirm a little, reaching back to try and touch him in turn, but he evades you, grabbing your wrist and setting it gently back down on the armrest of your chair.

“I love you,” he murmurs wetly — he’s practically making out with your neck now, and the sensation triggers a cascade of chills down your spine. “Let me do this for you.”

You hear yourself make a sound as his movements get more intentional. His fingers are on the inseam of your jeans now, pressing hard and circling slow. Fuck, he’s gonna make you come right here in your clothes at the goddamned kitchen table if he’s not careful, and he’s showing no sign whatsoever of wanting to be careful. His tongue is tracing the shell of your ear, his teeth teasing at the lobe. You’re aching with want now, arching your back to coax his hand up, up— there, he’s finally lowering your fly, wriggling his fingers into the slit, unhooking the button with his thumb. One thing about super soldiers, you think dazedly, they sure are coordinated.

And focused, too— he will not let up. You spread your legs more to give him some room, and he chuckles in your ear.

“Gonna come like this for me, Sam?” he asks huskily. He knows you love the way he says your name, and you make another sound as he starts to roll his fingertips. “Or do you want my mouth?”

 _No. Gross. Bad._ Sometimes you can do it, but today the thought makes your throat close up. You shake your head as sharply as you can manage with Steve pressed so close.

“Okay,” he says, lightly, like you’ve turned down a cup of coffee or another piece of cake. He withdraws his hand from your underwear and drags it up your abdomen. You focus on the feeling of his calluses catching on the fabric of your shirt. It calms you, lets you remember that this is good, that there’s no hurry.

In due time, Steve’s fingers have reached your lips. “Lick?” he asks.

It’s a question. You can choose what you do next.

So you do. You open your mouth and take Steve’s fingers in, tasting a trace of yourself on his skin. You lave them with your tongue, probably getting them wetter than you need to — though who knows, you always need a lot of lube — and you savor the way Steve’s kisses on your neck falter a little when you do. His hips start to shift restlessly behind you. You smirk. You know exactly what he’s thinking about— and you’re thinking about it now, too.

“Later,” you say around his fingers, and his laugh is a breath in your ear.

“Okay,” he says again, pulling his hand out of your mouth. You feel everything tighten as you wait, and then he’s finally touching you. It’s warm and wet, with just enough of Steve’s rough hands to ground you.

You can’t describe the movements of his fingers, not that you want to. But each flutter, each circle, each stroke is painting perfect lines of sensation. You feel yourself arch forward, opening even wider, and when your jeans tighten around your thighs you remember that you’re doing this dressed, in the kitchen, and it makes you laugh.

“What?” Steve asks, a hum against your neck that sends another shiver down your spine.

“Nothing,” you manage. “Just— been a weird day.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He licks your ear again. Your eyes flicker closed, blocking out the dirty dishes in the sink, the greasy griddle on the counter. Now there’s nothing but you and Steve and Steve’s wonderful, knowing hands.   

Within minutes you’re close. You roll your head back onto Steve’s shoulder, letting it build as he picks up speed. His body is warm and solid behind you, his lips hot on your neck, and then he says your name one more time, and— oh _fuck,_ you’re there, the feeling crescendos and crashes, pulling you out of your body, your chair, your kitchen— and Jesus, it’s peaking again, how does he know how to do this—

“Fu-uck-k,” you hear yourself say. That’s too many syllables, but you’re too blissed out to care. Steve’s rubbing you lightly as you come down, and slowly withdrawing his fingers. You sag back in your chair, amazed to find that you’re not on the floor.

“Okay, _now_ you should go back to bed,” Steve tells you smugly after a moment in which you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.

You hum in agreement and, once your legs work again, you let him help you to your feet. He all-but carries you to the bedroom and tugs off your jeans as soon as you’re horizontal. You reach for him when he turns away, and he chuckles.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, indulging your ridiculous neediness. “Just gonna make sure the door’s locked and everything.”

You nod; you know that tendency all too well. While he’s gone, you tug off the collared shirt you’d put on after your shower. You throw it into the corner, vowing to pick it up later but not sure if you’ll actually keep that promise. You’re on vacation, after all.

It’s a strange feeling, to think that no one will be calling you or emailing for a week. You don’t have to get dressed, you don’t have to go to the office. It’s relief, you realize. You’ve been so stressed for so long that Steve’s right: you’ve been missing out on what’s right in front of you, and you’ve been neglecting your own needs.

Priorities, you think. What are your priorities?

Steve re-enters the room and lies down beside you. He’s brushed his teeth, you discover, when he pulls you close, so you kiss him for it, softly. He moves against you, and you feel how hard he still is.

“Is it later now?” he asks, and you nod.

You reward his patience by stripping him, letting your tongue brush against every bit of newly exposed skin until finally your lips are around his cock.

He sighs and arches up slightly. He can’t hold off much longer, so you double your efforts, adding your hands into the mix — one on his dick, the other squeezing his hand. He moans your name and bites his bottom lip. His breathing picks up, picks up, releases, and he’s come in your mouth. You swallow hurriedly, suck him gently until he’s calmed again, until his eyes are open like windows on a still lake. He disentangles your fingers and touches your ear, your neck, your lips, and then he smiles. Beautiful.

You see his lips move as he opens his mouth to speak, but no sounds come out. He shakes his head a second later, like _what can you do?_ and, in response you shrug, help him get his pants back on, and lie down. He hums contentedly as you wrap yourself around his back like he’s still a little guy and your big spoon is sufficient. That thought makes you laugh a little for some reason, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind; he kisses your forearm where it’s around his chest and burrows deeper into his pillow.

“Maybe I should quit my job.”

You aren’t sure where those words came from. It sounded like your voice, but you had no intention of speaking, and if you did, you certainly didn’t mean to say that.

“Do you want to?” Steve asks.

You don’t answer. You’re half-afraid to open your mouth again, in case that person who spoke a minute ago says something disastrous, like _God, yes._

Do you want to? “Sometimes,” you say finally.

“Which job?” Steve asks, after another long moment of silence.

You blink at the back of his head. What does he mean, which—? Oh.

“I don’t know,” you reply, and it’s completely honest, since you didn’t know what you meant when you started this whole thing, either.

“The team can get by without you,” Steve offers quietly. “I mean, you’re an asset, I don’t want you to think—  I don’t mean any offence, but....”

He trails off, and you’re fairly sure you understand what he means, awkward as it sounds. Even though you’re good, the team doesn’t, in the strictest sense, need you. The Avengers is made up of assets, and a lot of them can fly, too. They don’t need you the way Jim does, or Janna, or Mo. Or any of the clients you dropped when you decided to run off and join Captain America in the fight against evil.

But Steve....

Like he can hear your thoughts, Steve exhales and rolls over. “You can still help me search for Bucky,” he says, looking into your eyes. “I can go out with the team, and you can, too, if the situation calls for it. But there’s no need for you to be running yourself into the ground doing every Avengers mission, plus helping me, _and_ keeping your job at the VA.”

You look away, shake your head. “Who’s gonna catch you when you jump off a building, though?” you ask. _Using humor to deflect,_ your inner counselor voice says. You tell it to hush.

“I’ll be fine,” Steve replies, seeing right through you again. “If you need to walk away, Sam, you can.”

“I don’t need to,” you begin to protest. “I just....”

“Maybe you don’t need to,” Steve concedes. He takes your hand again, links your fingers together. “But you are allowed to _want_ to do things, too.”

You can’t help it, you crack a smile at that. “Now _you’re_ starting to sound like _me,”_ you tell him.

But Steve doesn’t even blink. “I take that as a compliment.”

You breathe out, long and slow, and try to think it through. You do miss the rhythm of the office, and tracking down the Winter Soldier has mostly consisted of lots of research and the occasional weekend trip across the country to see the wreckage he’s left behind. You could do that, you realize, but something makes you hesitate.

“Are you sure you want me taking point on... the missing person’s case?” you ask. For some reason — which probably has something to do with having your steering wheel ripped out of your hands and getting kicked off a helicarrier — you have a hard time saying the name that Steve’s so comfortable with.

He knows exactly what you mean, though, and nods. “I trust you,” he says simply. “I’d much rather have you on it than anyone else.”

This surprises you. “The team...?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head vehemently. “They don’t know anything, and I don’t intend to tell them.”

His conviction worries you, and you can’t put your finger on why. Keeping secrets is never a good idea, you suppose, but there’s something else. Some inkling, maybe, that this isn’t going to end well.

Still, it’s his call. You nod. “Okay, then.”

“Okay?” Steve repeats. “Okay what?”

You draw a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Okay, then, I am officially requesting a change in status. Sir,” you add, just because, and you see Steve fight back a grin. “I’d like you to demote me to the reserves.”

Steve nods solemnly, but then he breaks. “What?” you ask, laughing with him. “It’s not a euphemism.”

Steve laughs harder. “It should be.”

That sets you off, too, and you roll onto your back, huffing up at the ceiling. You feel good, like a weight’s been lifted off your chest. A weight that was there so long you’d forgotten what it was like to be without it. The stress of doing everything was getting to you a lot more than you’d realized, and it feels nice to be able to pick and choose.

Steve’s settled down now, he’s buried his nose in your neck — again, like he’s tiny — and draped his arm over your abdomen, carefully avoiding the scars that still itch from time to time. You smile at this and kiss his hair, feeling your fatigue start to creep in again as you do. It’s a relief to close your eyes against the daylight.

“You’re still taking a vacation, though, right?” Steve mumbles after what feels like a long time.

“Damn right I am,” you murmur back.

“Good,” Steve sighs into your skin. “That’s good.”

It is good, you think, as sleep starts to settle in your limbs. Layna will be happy, and your mother, too — she always worries when you go out with the team. You’ll worry about Steve when you’re not with him, but he’s more than capable of handling himself, and there are four other people to watch his back, keep him from doing anything (too) stupid. And if he really needs you, you’ll strap on your wings and go. No question.

In the meantime, you’ll take your vacation and recharge, get ready to go back to regular hours at the VA. You wonder if you can take on your old clients again, you wonder how they’re doing. You think about your office, about the potted plant that hasn’t been doing so well since you brought it home a few months ago. You imagine it thriving again, and this is the thought you fall asleep to.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on ~~Tumblr~~ [Dreamwidth](https://mrs-d.dreamwidth.org/) if you're so inclined.


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